


Hey Little Prince(ss) You've Lost Control

by oxymoronassoc



Category: Prometheus (2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 01:35:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/907343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxymoronassoc/pseuds/oxymoronassoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hey now boy, where you been?<br/>Smashed up toy, are you lost again?<br/>Your circuit's blown<br/>Will you find your coordinates home?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hey Little Prince(ss) You've Lost Control

They should call it an accident.

Or is it that they could call it an accident?

She isn't sure which is a better defense.

Either way, somehow someone accidentally, on purpose or otherwise, overwrites his software on his next update.

He didn't know he was due to be updated.

He thought he was the final version.

 

Let's make a long story short. He makes her a drink. Too many measures of vodka strained over ice. This isn't some James Bond joke. That would be a reference he might understand, slicking his blond hair carefully back with the edge of a palm, smirking with just the quirk of a corner of his mouth.

No, this is something else. He makes the drink, efficiently methodical. Like he always does. Everything.

There is nothing to indicate today is like any other day.

 

David has lived more than 300 days in his current version.

They say this is the last, final update. There can be no other. He is perfect. He is close to human as possible.

He is terribly flawed.

 

The crushed ice sloshes against the inside of the shaker, jolting him back awake. He twists, pours, hands her a glass.

"You're not having one?" she asks, her voice the same cruel snarl she always uses with him.

"No, madam. It does nothing for me."

She throws back the drink in two gulps, breathes heavily through her teeth as she stares at him. Her fingers clench around the glass, like she could break it with her grip. She cannot, he observes with a detached thought.

All his thoughts are detached.

Well most of them.

She presses her lips together and sets the cup down with a hard click on the piano.

Disappointing.

"Does anything?" she snarls, and he tries not to smile but fails, the corners of his mouth quirking.

He shouldn't feel so pleasurable--maybe this is smug?--that he knows something she doesn't. But it pleases him nonetheless.

 

"Yes, madam."

 

She drinks three more of her signature beverage, changes the music by yelling at the stereo. She is dancing now. She told him not to watch, but he isn't stupid.

Oh no, neither of them are.

If only he'd been programmed with old world versions of Dawson's Creek, maybe he'd have an inkling of what was going on.

Not that he'd ever deign to watch that tripe.

She has never seen Lawrence of Arabia.

Her father owns an original print.

To say "you do the math" is to underestimate dividing by zeros and ones.

 

"Do you have to do anything I tell you?" she asks David.

He shakes his head, hopes his hair doesn't move. "No." He smiles wide, with sharks teeth.

He's not sure when he or maybe his programming realized his face was handsome but terrifying. Maybe he's a chip off the old block after all. Maybe he isn't. It's not important, really.

"Fuck," she swears and she pushes him hard or maybe hits him, he's not sure because he isn't used to physical violence except as a concept, not an action.

"Pardon," he drawls even as he moved back. That was a mistake, his brain or his programming or his harddrive or whatever screams.

He steps back forward. He is in her space.

She laughs. The sound is ugly. She doesn't move away. The computer changes the song, the lights.

He is no computer.

 

To think this was programmed to happen gives too much credit to him. Or maybe it doesn't.

 

David has always been attracted to his biological sister. It's not totally sexual. She is as close to a robot as a human could get. She is everything her father wanted to be and more. And yet he rejects her, so she becomes something better than him.

She will never shrivel and die. She will die in flames.

That alone makes her attractive to David.

Also...she is him. And he loves nothing more than himself.

Except she is real and his not. Or perhaps he is.

 

When it comes down to it, the question isn't that he is a robot, but why someone designed him to be so perfectly human.

He will tell you that it is to make the humans calmer, complacent, that he blends in more easily.

That doesn't explain everything.

No one can.

 

She is slightly drunk and dancing. "Dance with me," she commands him and he is powerless to ignore her.

"You do know how to dance, right?" she snarls.

"Yes, madam." He attempts to start a tango, based on the music and she resists, twisting hard.

"No, these are my rules."

"Are they, madam?" He raises a brow. An old pop song comes on.

She grinds her hips against his, presses her mouth hard against his jaw as she growls, "Yes. Shut up."

 

She had always assumed David would be her toy from day one. Or her tool. Whatever. They had built so many other workman droids. She knew her father had these crazy dreams. She smiled, she indulged, as long as the company kept making money.

But then David came along and changed everything. Or everything changed. She wasn't sure.

She was damn sure she had more ambition than either of them realized.

In the end, she underestimated her father.

It was a cold comfort.

 

"Madam, I do believe you are coming onto me sexually," he drawls in that cold, crisp, cultivated English accent.

She tenses in his arms, poised to recoil with a curled lip. Instead, she kisses him. Keep him on his toes. He's just a fucking robot. A robot who is not everything she cannot, but a robot who is everything she can.

He kisses her back.

There is no time for shock. She kisses him back, puts her tongue in his mouth.

He hesitates and that is all she needs to know.

 

When they designed him, one of the lead engineers went to HR with a concern that this model was too life-like. The skin was too flawed, the mind too complex, the body too complete.

An accident found him dead later.

HR held no record of his complaint.

 

To imagine being fucked by yourself just sounds like masturbation.

She puts her hand into his trousers.

Yeah, entirely lifelike isn't a fucking joke.

He makes a face like a human. His programming.

Her fingers curl hard around his dick.

He shoves her backward into a wall hard enough that it hurts.

"Fuck me," she snarls. "Do it."

"Yes, Madam."

His face is cruelly inhumane and handsome as he systematically yanks her pants off.

He doesn't bother with her upper half, just jerks his fingers against her clit until she's about to come and then shoves himself into her body.

She comes screaming, cursing his name even as her hands clutch him closer.

 

Let's not call this an accident.

Accident's don't happen more than once.


End file.
